


a better life, and you dream about it

by kirazi



Series: Executive Brienne verse [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Suit Kink, Table Sex Tuesday, even though it's not tuesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24585340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirazi/pseuds/kirazi
Summary: The suit looks fucking incredible. That’s Jaime’s first thought when she comes though the door.(a short and filthy-but-sweet sequel to sdwolfpup's "Working 9 to 5," from Jaime's POV)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Executive Brienne verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722469
Comments: 40
Kudos: 155





	a better life, and you dream about it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/gifts).



The suit looks fucking incredible. That’s Jaime’s first thought when she comes though the door. He’d crashed at his own place last night, after some late drinks with Addam, and by the time he’d headed over to Brienne’s apartment it was almost noon. So he’d missed the chance to watch her get dressed this morning, much to his regret—although she’d texted to tell him she was wearing it. He’d persuaded her to send him a selfie, but she’d been sitting at her desk (of which he has recently gained fond, filthy memories) and looking a little bit self-conscious, so the impact had been muted. Now, though, she’s upright, striding though the entry hall and setting her briefcase on the polished hardwood table there, and he can see how the fine fabric—a dark steel-blue Italian wool—drapes and accentuates the long, clean lines of her body. The fitted cut is vaguely masculine, but it doesn’t look gendered, it just looks like her: tall and powerful and singular, a figure that could dominate a room. It’s absolutely perfect.

Jaime’s second thought is that sweatpants are great for working remotely—he still finds the laziness indulgent enough to be fun, after four years of knotting ties and pretending to aspire to fill his father’s shoes—but their soft, comfy knit is just _terrible_ at hiding a hard-on.

Brienne sighs with release as she toes her feet out of her low-heeled pumps, and the situation in his sweatpants escalates. This is his fault, after all—when he’d resigned from Lion Corp, he’d given her his tailor’s card, with the date-and-time of an appointment for a fitting inked in the margin. A vice-president’s salary means she can afford bespoke, and while he’d been tempted to buy her a suit—or several—he’d kept his senses just enough to realize it might be too extravagant a gift to give her so soon, might be a little too much. She’d just given him the keys to her apartment, and he was feeling a bit dizzy as a result. Jaime doesn’t really have words for it, the staggering sense of relief he feels with her, like he’s taken off an ill-fitting costume, removed a mask that was getting more and more exhausting to keep up: being Tywin’s heir, playing the glad-handing, hard-partying corporate bro about town. He loves his friends; they’re great people, most of them. They have fun. But he’s always felt this queasy conviction that somehow if he’d ever let slip a glimpse of a certain side of himself—the part that’s a deep well of need, hungry for simple affection, that wants to let go and have someone else take the wheel, sometimes—they’d back away from him, blinking and surprised, and maybe a little bit appalled. Though not as appalled as his father would have been.

Brienne isn’t appalled by him. He’s not too much for her. She’s strong and sturdy and wickedly good at topping him to pieces when they’re in the mood, but she’s also soft, underneath her armor; and he’s aware what a privilege it is to be witness to her vulnerability, her own need. And better yet, to feel sufficient to meet it.

She catches him staring, then, and a knowing little smile captures her lips. It lights her whole face up, that twitch of muscle—suddenly she doesn’t look tired at all. It turns him into a puddle.

“Turn around and let me see,” he tells her, smiling wide, and she does: a slow, deliberate spin, stocking feet and elegant ankles peeking out beneath the hems of the slim-cut trousers, still neatly creased.

“Like it?” she asks him, as if she doesn’t already know the answer to that.

“I like it a whole lot,” he says, widening his legs a little to let her see just how much.

Brienne rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” she tells him, but her tone is fond, and the warmth in it sends a bolt of lust right through his gut.

“That’s what you get for taking up with a twenty-five-year-old stud,” Jaime reminds her, smirking. “I’m sure you appreciate seeing how much I appreciate you.”

Brienne sucks in a breath, regarding him carefully, and then straightens her spine, and he almost shivers, seeing the change come over her—the shift in posture, the quick flash in her eyes, the now-familiar signs that mean their game is on.

“Come and show me,” she says, low and deliberate. So he does. He kisses her slowly when he gets there, placing his hands on her hips, enjoying the fine texture of the suit’s cloth and her warmth beneath it. They’re both a little breathless by the time he breaks the kiss, and he thrills at her sudden inhalation when he drops to his knees.

Jaime reaches up and sets his hands back at her waist, unbuckling the narrow belt—he had allowed himself to risk that one small gift, the leather custom-tooled with a very subtle lion and star motif—and drawing it slowly out of the loops of her trousers.

“The couch would be more comfortable,” Brienne observes, and he can hear the slight waver in her voice as she watches him, trying to keep her tone steady.

He grins, looking up. “You’re not the boss of me,” he tells her.

Brienne groans, but her eyes are soft and indulgent. “I was going to get in the shower,” she says, but even as she’s saying it her long cool fingers are stroking the line of his jaw, playing with the stubble he no longer hastens to shave away every morning—he knows she’s fond of that, too. He wants to lean into her touch.

“No,” he says, and then, “Please?” He likes her best this way—not fresh from showering, but smelling like herself, at the end of the afternoon. He’ll be able to taste every hour she’s spent wearing this suit all day, be reminded all over again of how this started, and where.

She nods, and he unfastens the button and zipper, drawing it down slowly, taking pleasure in the hitch of her breath as he goes. He pulls the trousers down just far enough to fully expose her underwear—practical navy cotton, high-quality but nothing showy, the crotch already dampening with arousal. He nuzzles her there, breathing in the smell, rubbing his nose along the fabric and listening to her soft exhalations. Then he peels those down, too, and reacquaints himself with the marvelous sight before him. There’s not much about Brienne he’d describe as delicate, or pretty—formidable and magnificent are the kind of words that usually come to mind—but here, she’s both. He admires the vee of closely trimmed dark-blonde hair (he’s borrowed that trimmer to use on his new beard a few times, much to her amusement) and the eager tip of her clit already peeking out of its hood. The soft lips below are bare—she shaves when she’s in the mood for it, because she likes the way his mouth feels on her exposed skin—and between them, he can glimpse the delicate, rosy shell-edge of the inner labia, so marvelously sensitive to his exhaled breath. The way she’s standing, legs still trapped by her trousers at mid-thigh, he can’t spread her wider, expose the full glory of her cunt, but he’s not in a hurry, not quite yet. Instead, he undoes the bottom two buttons on her blouse so he can appreciate the soft curve of her belly and the pale hollow of her navel, and lets his tongue trace the line of almost-translucent down until his mouth is at her mons, and heading south.

He sets himself to it in earnest, sucking a bruise into the softest part of her thigh, rejoicing at the feeling of her fingers tightening in his hair until his scalp aches as much as his balls. Brienne gasps when he finally sweeps his tongue across her clit, and reaches back to steady herself on the table, spreading her fingers along the wood for balance. He nuzzles her again, lets his stubble graze against her thighs, awakening a shiver, and brings a finger up to trace the seam between her labia, already so wet. Then she gets impatient, shifting her hips forward to insist on more contact. So he grabs her trousers and underwear with both hands and shoves them down, all the way, while she lifts one foot and then the other so he can free them both from the cloth and leave it puddled on the floor. She’s wearing those sheer black trouser-socks that don’t quite reach her knees, and he runs a finger along the nylon, feeling her shiver at the touch, all the way from her ankle up to where they end around the firm muscle of her calf.

“Hold on,” he tells her, and she almost growls at him, to his glee. Brienne shifts back so she’s perched on the edge of the table and he slips a hand under her right thigh to support her while she swings her left leg over his shoulder and then she’s spread out before him like a banquet, and he leans in to devour her. He’s made a diligent study of the subject. He knows exactly what she likes, now, knows how to build her pleasure steadily, how to tease her by switching it up and drawing it out almost past the edge of her tolerance, before shifting to the rhythmic pace of flat-tongued strokes over her clit, combined with a twist of fingers inside, that will reliably ramp her up to the edge and topple her over. But he’s mindful of the fact she’s upright, and it’s been a long day. So he’ll save the slow torment for later, and take the quick route this time. He slips two fingers into her pulsing cunt, and Brienne moans so loudly he can’t help echoing her, feeling her clench around them as his lips move back up to fasten over her clit and suck. Then it’s hard and fast and glorious, his mouth and hand working in tandem until she’s bucking her hips and crying out brokenly and the table wobbles so hard her briefcase goes thumping to the floor as she comes all over his face. Jaime strokes her through it, pressing soft kisses against her trembling thigh as he withdraws his fingers and shakes the cramp out of his hand.

Brienne slides her leg off his shoulder and he stands up to steady her as she catches her balance, and her breath. Her cheeks and the sliver of exposed chest are flushed from her orgasm, and her gaze is soft with satisfaction when she meets his eyes. The warm rush of her approval washes over him—nothing else has ever made him feel this good; no triumphant handshake over a deal or dizzy high at a party could even compete with how this feels.

Jaime steps back to give her space as she shrugs off her blazer and hangs it on the coat hook in the hall. He reaches down to gather up her crumpled trousers, folding and presenting them to her with a grin. He knows that he looks a little smug, and she likes it.

“I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow,” he promises, leaning in to kiss her while she undoes the rest of the buttons on her sweat-stained blouse. She drapes it on the table, over the trousers, and doesn’t object when he starts to unfasten her sensible plain bra, discarding it on the pile. Her nipples are still stiff, and he kisses them too, one by one, so focused on her that he’s almost startled when he feels her fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants. And then suddenly he’s _extremely_ aware of his neglected boner, as she pulls them down and the air hits his heated skin. Jaime sighs against her shoulder as her fingers trace his spine and come down to cup his ass firmly, pulling him close against her.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he manages to say into her clavicle, and he feels her answering laugh.

“Yes, that’s what I had in mind,” she tells him, and his cock twitches at the promise in her voice.

“Sit back,” he suggests. The table should be just the right height, with him on his feet—he’s never bothered to appreciate before what a marvelously handy piece of furniture it is, although he’d be perfectly happy to do her standing up against the wall. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But Brienne shakes her head. “I have a better idea,” she says, and then she shimmies out of his grasp and turns around and he feels his mouth drop open as she braces both hands on the table. She bends over, spreading her legs wide and arching her back a little, and _fuck_ , his dick could not possibly get harder than this: the sight of her naked except for the stockings, her heart-shaped ass on display for him, her cunt plump and flushed and wet, because of him, because of his mouth and her pleasure. It still bowls him over every time, the awareness of how much trust it takes for her to offer herself to him so completely.

He kicks his feet out of the sweatpants and steps forward, setting his hands on her waist, running his palms down her flanks and thighs, bending forward to graze his teeth over her shoulder blades until she squirms. His body is pressed against hers from shoulders to ankles, his cock rubbing up against the cleft of her ass, and he wonders why they haven’t tried this position yet, why they don’t do it every fucking day, wonders if this is how it feels for her when she bends him over her desk. Jaime thinks about her cock in his ass, and moans a little. He reaches down to grab his cock and lines himself up and then he’s pushing into her, exhaling with the sudden riot of sensation—she’s slick, tight from the angle and nuclear hot, and he sends up a fervent praise of thanks that they don’t need a condom, that there’s nothing around him but Brienne.

She makes a pleased little sound, deep in her throat, when he starts to thrust. He fumbles a hand around to fit the soft swell of her breast into his hand, and then he fucks her, fast and hard and delirious, his other hand braced at her hip while he leans forward to mouth the knobs of her spine, every nerve ending on fire. He’s too far gone for it to last long—just a minute or two of perfection before his body is tensing, pleasure moving through him in a sudden rush and cresting in swelling, echoing bursts. He’s still groaning into the back of her neck when his brain flickers back online enough to register his astonishment at how _good_ it is, even when it’s fast, how good it always feels with her.

It’s his turn to be unsteady, now, as he withdraws and she pushes herself upright, his knees bumping against hers as they stumble to their feet.

“Okay, now the couch sounds like a good idea,” he says, a little hoarse, and she laughs. He staggers over to it and flops down, and Brienne follows, bending down to peel off the nylons.

“Leave them on,” says, offering her his hand, and she takes it and lets him pull her down next to him, stretched out face to face, flushed and smiling. Even in the aftermath, he can’t stop touching her perfect skin. He feels so fucking lucky.

“How was your day?” he asks, and she laughs again; the rumble of it going right through his chest.

“Long and hard,” she tells him. “But productive. I like Genna; she’s going to be a good boss, I think.”

“Better than me,” he says, tracing the line of her clavicle with a fingertip.

“Yes,” she admits. “But you’d have managed.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to,” he tells her, and means it.

Brienne smiles at him, shifts a little so she can run her long fingers through his hair. The sensation makes him want to purr like a kitten. “What did you do today? After sleeping off the hangover, that is.”

Jaime nips her shoulder for that one, but not too hard—it turns into a kiss.

“I finally registered for the continuing ed program at KLU next term,” he tells her. “I’m still trying to decide what classes to take first, though. Maybe Modern Standard Valyrian, and organizational psychology.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, so he does. He’s still figuring out what he wants to do, wants to be—he’s technically set himself up as a freelance consultant for now, but he’s thinking about maybe studying part-time for master’s degree, in business or sociology or who knows, just something he can be hungry to learn on his own. Jaime feels a little guilty sometimes about how much happier he is as an orphan. Tywin’s dead and his expectations are dead with him, and now Jaime’s finally starting to seek out the contours of a life he’s chosen for himself: one with Brienne, and without the crushing burden of his inheritance. He doesn’t know how long it would have taken him without her—if he’d have ever found the guts to let his future unfold like this, wide-open, if she hadn’t walked into his life, with her sober pantsuits and her stern directions and her transparent inability to disguise her coffee preferences.

He hopes she can see that. And if not, he’ll keep proving it to her—on his knees, in her bed, on this couch, in their future—over and over again.

**Author's Note:**

> What happened here is that back when sdwolfpup was still working on the masterpiece known as "Working 9 to 5 (for service and devotion)" we were spitballing in the DMs about how much good sex these two idiots-in-love would have once they finally sorted out all their professional and personal issues and got together properly, and I may have suggested a number of specific scenarios that could possibly occur, and she may have said "write that one." So I did, although it took a little longer than expected. Brought to you by many photos of Gwendoline Christie in suits, and also the additional inspiration provided by brynnmck's invention of Table Sex Tuesday (consider this a belated birthday present!) 
> 
> Title from Dolly, of course, like the original.


End file.
